


Spare Me Your Judgements (and spare me your dreams)

by messageredacted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:24:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a serial killer in London, and clues are starting to point to Sherlock. John trusts his flatmate. Doesn’t he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare Me Your Judgements (and spare me your dreams)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on 18 March 2011.

“It wasn’t until the autopsy that we even knew he’d been murdered,” Lestrade said, standing back. “The medical examiner found the sedative in his blood, and the needle hole.”

They were in the morgue, which was as bright and frigid as a winter day. Sherlock stalked around the table, going through the steps of his usual, slightly disturbing inspection. John stood next to Lestrade, watching Sherlock sniffing under the dead man’s fingernails. Sherlock looked sallow, thinner than normal, with circles around his eyes. John bit the inside of his cheek.

“They don’t normally do autopsies for heart attacks,” John said to Lestrade, unzipping the front of his jacket but not taking it off yet.

Lestrade shifted his gaze to John, since Sherlock was paying them no attention. “No, they don’t. But the victim had a history of depression and the insurance company insisted on an autopsy to rule out suicide.”

“The needle hole is under his ear,” Sherlock announced, lifting the man’s earlobe with one hand and peering through the magnifying glass held in the other. “An unusual place to inject yourself, and given the angle, I’d say physically impossible.”

“Could have been the wife,” John suggested. “If she stood to get the money from the life insurance.”

“If you’re going to start throwing out the first suggestion that pops into your head, we’d all be better served if you go and get us some coffee,” Sherlock said. It was sharper than it should have been, and John felt his annoyance returning.

“Not the wife, then,” John muttered under his breath.

“Not the wife,” Lestrade echoed. He shot John a look, the corners of his mouth turning up in amused sympathy, although there was something concerned in his eyes. John smiled wanly.

“It’s very neatly done,” Sherlock continued, ignoring them. “Either he does this professionally or this isn’t his first victim.”

“He?” John asked.

“It’s still not the wife, John,” Sherlock said.

John gritted his teeth. “I know,”

“Statistically, yes. _He_.”

“The victim isn’t someone who has a lot of enemies,” said Lestrade. “He’s married—”

“Married twelve years,” Sherlock interrupted, circling down to the victim’s feet and lifting his ankle to study it. “Two children; sons, most likely. An office job, but he has a healthy diet and exercises several times a week. No history of heart disease. No need to tell me that I’m right. I already know.”

“The medical examiner found nothing in the victim’s blood that would have induced a heart attack,” Lestrade said.

“That seems clumsy for our killer,” said Sherlock in interest. “He goes out of his way to give the victim a heart attack in a way that would be undetectable, but sedates him with something that would show up easily? If the killer were relying on the death appearing too natural to warrant an autopsy, why bother with undetectable poisons? I’d say that he wanted to be discovered. In which case, I would look for more victims.”

“More victims? You think it’s a serial killer?” John asked despite himself.

Sherlock didn’t look at him. “Didn’t I say that? Yes, obviously, it’s a serial killer. He’s most likely male, above average intelligence, likely with some connection to the medical industry, and more specifically someone with experience with injections. A nurse, perhaps, or possibly a former drug addict. Not an addict anymore, though—hands too steady for that. I’ll need to see the crime scene.”

“The forensics team is already there,” Lestrade said.

“Let’s go, then,” Sherlock said, pulling off his gloves with a snap. “We need to get there before it’s completely destroyed.”

John stood aside to let Sherlock and Lestrade leave the morgue first. As Sherlock passed him, John found his eyes automatically catching Sherlock’s for a brief second before Sherlock went through the door. Sherlock’s pupils were wider than they should have been for the brightness of the lab.

 _I’m more observant than you think I am_ , John thought to himself, following them out of the room.

##

The victim, Harold Gardener, had lived with his wife and two sons in a small flat. The sons were aged seven and fourteen, and stood with silent, drawn faces behind their mother as she wept in the kitchen. There were sympathy bouquets crowding the kitchen table, making a forest between the woman and Lestrade.

“We went to bed around eleven that night,” Mrs. Gardener said, one hand cupped over her mouth as if she wanted to stop the words from coming out. “Harold always had trouble falling asleep, but he fell asleep before I did. When I woke up in the morning, he was—” Her voice hitched. “He was gone.”

“Had he complained of any chest pain or nausea?” Lestrade asked the woman patiently.

She shook her head. “Not that he mentioned. He may have been coming down with a cold, since he sneezed a few times.”

“What did he eat or drink that night?” Sherlock asked her. He was looming behind Lestrade, his arms over his chest. “Something that you didn’t also have?”

“He had a glass of scotch.” Mrs. Gardener waved a hand toward a cupboard in the corner of the room. “He usually has one before bed.”

Sherlock strode to the cabinet and opened it. He held out a hand to Lestrade, who stared at it, then belatedly got up from the table and handed him a pair of gloves. Sherlock pulled them on and lifted the bottle out of the cabinet. He pulled off the top and sniffed it, then closed it again. He put the bottle back down and lifted out the scotch glass. He held it up to the light and put it down again.

“You can test the scotch but I don't think you’ll find anything,” Sherlock said. He looked back at Mrs. Gardener. “Did your husband take any medication for anything?”

“No.”

Sherlock walked out of the room. John and Lestrade followed, with Mrs. Gardener hurrying behind, startled out of her grief.

In the bedroom, the forensics team had been photographing and marking the position of various objects. Sherlock, Lestrade and John had already been in here once, although they hadn’t found much of anything. Sherlock passed the bedroom door and entered the bathroom next to it. He opened the medicine cabinet and began picking through the things there. He came up with a prescription bottle.

“You said he didn’t take medication,” he said to Mrs. Gardener, emerging back into the hall. “This has his name on it.”

“That was just for his allergies. He took it once in a while.”

“Did he take them the night he died?”

“He may have,” Mrs. Gardener said cautiously.

“He was allergic to dust, I assume?” Sherlock asked.

“Dust and cats. We don’t have a cat.”

Sherlock stepped into the bedroom and walked over to the bed. He pulled out his magnifying glass and peered at the pillow, then straightened. “When was the last time you washed this pillowcase?”

“The day after he died.”

Sherlock turned around in a circle. “You keep the flat very clean,” he said to Mrs. Gardener.

She blinked at him. “His allergies were terrible,” she said.

Sherlock looked up. He reached up to the ceiling fan and turned the blades lightly with one fingertip.

“You couldn’t reach this, though,” Sherlock said. He turned to Lestrade. “There are marks in the dust here. He needed Gardener to ingest the sedative so that he could get close enough to inject him without Gardener waking up, since Gardener was a light sleeper. He knew Gardener had a dust allergy, because he saw how clean the flat was and saw the pills in the bathroom. He doctored the antihistamines, which Gardener would already expect to make him drowsy, and then put some dust on his pillow to force Gardener to take them.”

“Why rely on finding dust in the flat, if he knew how clean it was? Why not bring something with him to trigger the allergies?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock inclined his head. “A remarkably insightful question,” he said thoughtfully.

Lestrade quirked his lips. “Take down the fan and fingerprint it,” he said to Anderson, who moved to obey.

“You won’t find fingerprints.” Sherlock tapped one of the blades. “He was wearing gloves, see? You probably don’t see, because you’re not tall enough. I only saw it because I’m tall. Our killer has to be tall as well.”

Lestrade put a hand on the dresser and stretched up on tiptoe to look at the top of the fan blade. “Very tall,” he agreed. “So, he’s tall, knows his way around a needle, has access to medical supplies, and above average intelligence.”

Anderson paused on his way out of the room. “You realise you’re saying that to a six foot tall junkie with access to the hospital labs, right?” he said to Lestrade.

“Ah, now we’ve reached the baseless accusation part of the investigation,” Sherlock said. “I can always count on you to start the hysterical finger-pointing, Anderson.”

Lestrade held up a hand. “Let’s not start this. Anderson, get a stepladder.”

“Ex-junkie,” Sherlock added belatedly. Anderson snorted. John caught Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock looked away.

“I’m going to wait outside,” John said.

##

It was cold outside. John stood with his hands in his pockets, watching his breath puff out into the air. There were a few officers heading in and out of the building, carrying evidence bags and other things. It was a belated crime scene, set up several days after the crime was committed. The only reason they’d even known it was a murder was blind luck.

Sherlock joined him ten minutes later, just when John was thinking of swallowing his pride and heading back into the building.

“I’m going to St. Bart’s to do some tests, but we can share a taxi,” he said, stopping briefly next to John to adjust his scarf.

“Fine,” John said. “Let’s go.”

“Are we going to continue doing this?” Sherlock’s voice held contempt.

“You tell me. Are you using?”

“Is no part of my life my own anymore?” Sherlock snapped.

“I just want to know when to expect that you’ll start selling my stuff for cocaine,” John said.

“I’m not an addict, John. If I need something to shut down my brain once in a while, I’ll do it, but I’m not addicted. If it bothers you so much, move out.”

“Do you want me to?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock didn’t look at him. “If you can’t handle being my flatmate, I’d rather you do it now.”

John rubbed at his face and looked away. “I don’t know if I can stand to watch you hurt yourself.” Sherlock drew in a breath to respond and John interrupted him. “But I’m not going to break the lease.”

“Stay, then,” Sherlock said carelessly. He stepped forward to the curb to wave down a taxi.

##

Sherlock spent a few hours in the labs at St. Bart’s working out what type of poison would induce a heart attack and then erase itself from the victim’s blood. John went back to the flat to change his clothes and then headed to the clinic for his afternoon shift.

He was distracted at work all day. If he was going to be honest with himself, John would admit that he had been distracted for the past week, ever since he had confronted Sherlock about his nightly outings. It wasn’t just that he suspected Sherlock of feeding his addiction, which was bad enough and made John sick to think about. It was also that since he had confronted Sherlock, there had been tension between them, and it hurt him to wake up every morning and know that they were not friends. It hurt to think that Sherlock would not text him during the day with inane requests. Worst of all, it hurt to think that maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe he should move out.

He got back to the flat around seven to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa with a half dozen folders from the Met. A few photographs of middle-aged men were strewn across the coffee table.

“New information?” John asked, taking off his coat.

“Six victims,” Sherlock said with relish, looking up. “All of them middle-aged men, married with two sons. All of them had heart attacks and have died in the last month.”

“A serial killer. Your favourite.” John went into the kitchen to make tea for them both.

When he returned with the tea, Sherlock was absorbed in his work. One of his knees jiggled as he tapped his foot on the floor and he was flicking through the pages quickly, not settling on any one thing for long.

“Six in a month is prolific for a serial killer,” said John, setting the tea down on the coffee table. He picked up one of the files and glanced at it.

“He must have motivation,” mumbled Sherlock distractedly.

“What would motivate a serial killer?”

Sherlock reached the end of the file and glanced up, focusing on John again. “I’m no longer convinced that he is one.”

“What?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Serial killers have a compulsion to kill. They kill to satisfy that compulsion and then have a period of time before that need builds up again. It might be weeks or months or years between kills.” Sherlock tapped the file. “This killer showed up in London and killed six people in a month, with anywhere from two to eight days between kills. If he were a real serial killer, he would have to build up to that kind of frequency, but as far as I can find, these are his first kills. At least, the first that fit this pattern.”

“But the pattern of middle-aged men with two sons has to mean something.”

“Men between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five, each with two sons, the youngest of which is always between six and nine years old. Of course it _means_ something, but what, I don’t know yet.” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. John glanced down at Sherlock’s jiggling knee again.

John bit his tongue and said nothing, but the next time Sherlock glanced up, he read it on John’s face. Sherlock stopped moving his knee and glared at John.

“I’m clean when I’m on a case, John,” he said.

“How can you expect to solve this case while going through withdrawal?” John asked, straightening up. “You’ve been going out almost every night, Sherlock. You can’t expect to use drugs that often and then just stop.”

“Thank you, John, I am aware of the mechanics of chemical dependence,” Sherlock said sharply.

John sighed and turned away, unwilling to continue this argument. They’d had it enough.

##

The violin played from midnight until three in the morning, running through scales with excruciating regularity. When he wanted to, Sherlock could play the violin like a master, but tonight it was a punishment. John hadn’t yet worked out for whom the punishment was intended, but when the violin finally stopped at three, he breathed a sigh of relief.

His relief was cut short when he heard receding footsteps on the stairs and then the front door to the flat slam. Sherlock was gone.

##

Sherlock came home while John was having toast. As soon as John heard Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs, he leaned out the kitchen door into the stairwell.

Whatever he was going to say went straight out of his head when he saw Sherlock. “Christ, what happened to you?”

Sherlock reached the top of the stairs and stopped. His cheekbone and eye socket were purpling with a bruise, and his hair was more of a mess than usual. One of the buttons on the front of his coat was missing. He unwound his scarf before answering.

“I met our serial killer,” he said.

“You—” John stared at him. “You what?”

“Is that toast?” Sherlock asked, inclining his head.

John retreated into the kitchen and Sherlock followed, dropping down heavily at the kitchen table. John pushed his own plate of toast towards Sherlock and put more bread in the toaster for himself.

“You met the killer?” John prompted, fetching ice from the freezer.

“He’s tall,” Sherlock said. “Maybe twelve stone, and strong, but he doesn’t know how to punch.”

“Looks like he did well enough for himself,” John muttered, returning to Sherlock’s side with ice wrapped in a towel. Sherlock put the toast in his mouth and took the ice from John. “Is the case solved, then?”

“No,” said Sherlock, crunching his toast. “I don’t know who he is yet. He was wearing a mask. All I was able to tell was that he’s in his mid to late thirties, unmarried, and he plays rugby.”

“How did you even run into him? And how do you know he’s the killer?” John fetched his own toast and sat down across from Sherlock.

Sherlock adjusted the ice pack. “I went out looking to see if I could find anything from the crime scenes that the police hadn’t caught. Since he isn’t a serial killer, I wanted to find what his real motivation might be. He obviously intends to get caught, or else he wouldn’t have been so clumsy with the sedatives.”

“If he wanted to get caught, why wouldn’t he make it more obvious that the deaths were murders?” John asked.

Sherlock looked pleased with his question. “Exactly, John. That was the key. The killer wants to be caught, but doesn’t want it to look like he wants to be caught. He’s drawing our attention to these murders on purpose, but wants to hide the fact that he’s doing so.”

John felt a momentary rush of pride at Sherlock’s pleasure. “He wants us to underestimate him?”

“Perhaps. Or he’s trying to manipulate us in some way I haven’t thought of yet. In any case, he underestimated me last night. He must have followed me from somewhere, and ambushed me, but I got away, and left him some bruises for his troubles.” Sherlock flexed his fingers and John noticed the marks on his knuckles for the first time.

“Next time, take me with you,” said John. “The killer might think twice about taking on both of us.”

Sherlock’s mobile beeped in his pocket. Sherlock made to take the ice off his knuckles but John stopped him and fetched it out.

“It’s Lestrade,” he said. “He says there’s been another murder.”

##

The officer at the crime scene tape let them straight through without comment, but when John saw Sergeant Donovan standing at the front door of the building, he cringed in anticipation. Her eyes fixed on Sherlock’s black eye.

“Looks like someone got sick of your bullshit,” she said in greeting. “Tell me who did it and I’ll buy him a drink.”

“Give me time and I’ll deliver him to you,” Sherlock said, walking past her.

The victim had not died peacefully in his sleep this time. He was sprawled facedown on the floor of his bedroom, one arm outstretched towards the door as if he had been trying to flee his impending doom. His wife had come home from her mother’s house with their two sons to find him this way, already stone dead.

Lestrade met them inside the flat with two pairs of gloves. He eyed Sherlock’s bruises but instead of commenting, just said, “We’re waiting to turn the corpse over.”

“Good. You’re learning,” Sherlock said, stepping into the bedroom. Lestrade grimaced at John and John shrugged apologetically.

Sherlock squatted down next to the body and began his investigation. John circled around the edge, studying the corpse from afar. Anderson had stopped photographing the bed and the floor in order to watch Sherlock.

“He fits the profile of the other victims,” said Lestrade. “Wife, two sons. I wonder what significance that has for the murderer. Does the victim fit the profile of his brother? His father?”

Sherlock lifted the man’s hand and studied it. John saw marks on the man’s knuckles. He leaned in closer. They were very similar to the marks on Sherlock’s knuckles.

“Did he punch someone?” John asked.

Sherlock said nothing. He dropped the man’s hand and then hooked his hands under the man’s torso, rolling him onto his back. Anderson came forward to start photographing.

The victim had been lying on his stomach for long enough that lividity had set in, turning his face and the front of his body dark purple with pooled blood. Still, the man’s split lip and crooked nose were visible enough.

“He attacked our murderer,” said Lestrade, stepping forward. Sherlock glanced up and Lestrade stopped. The swollen bruise on Sherlock’s face was suddenly too obvious.

“How did you get that bruise, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

“Not fighting this man here,” Sherlock said in disgust, standing up.

“Oh, we’ll just take your word for it,” Anderson said. He took a photograph of Sherlock’s bruises and Sherlock glared at him.

“I know who’s behind this murder,” said Sherlock.

“Who?” Lestrade asked quietly.

“Moriarty.”

Anderson laughed out loud, turning away. John winced.

“Moriarty is dead,” said Lestrade, his voice maintaining its even tone. Sherlock turned his attention to him.

“Moriarty’s body was never found. You know as well as I do that he made it out of there.”

“With an explosion that large, there might not have been enough of him left to find,” John said carefully.

Sherlock whirled on him. “Not you, too,” he said in a fury. “I told you that this killer is trying to manipulate us. This serial killer is not a serial killer; he’s just trying to look like one. He wanted to attract attention so I would be called in. Anderson said it earlier—the clues about the murderer could apply to me as well. Of _course_ you’re going to suspect me, which is just what the killer wants. Last night he ambushes me, not because I’m getting too close to him but because if I show up with injuries that match the victim’s, you’re going to take it as incontrovertible proof. And who would orchestrate something like this? Seems unlikely that there would be _two_ psychopaths in London with an unhealthy interest in me. Moriarty must be alive.”

“But you’re a sociopath,” said Anderson. “You’ve admitted it yourself. You get off on this stuff. You’re playing around with murder just to prove how smart you are, but you’re too arrogant to believe we could ever catch you. Tell me, Sherlock—how are these victims connected to you? How did _your_ father die?”

Sherlock froze. He didn’t look at Anderson but John could tell that he had been caught off guard by Anderson’s comment.

“Heart attack,” he said stiffly. Anderson laughed and Sherlock shot a look of appeal at Lestrade. “Which only shows that the killer is specifically targeting me.”

Lestrade said nothing, studying Sherlock. John felt tense, watching the two of them. Sherlock looked as on edge as John felt.

“I can find your killer,” Sherlock said to Lestrade. “I think I’m close. Another few days and I’ll have him.”

“Don’t leave town,” said Lestrade, stepping out of the doorway. Anderson made a sound of disbelief. John’s shoulders relaxed, although Sherlock’s remained stiff. Sherlock walked past Lestrade and out of the flat. John followed.

##

For the afternoon and evening, John saw little of Sherlock. Sherlock spent time at St. Bart’s in the labs, and when he wasn’t there, he was compiling lists of potential victims on his laptop in the kitchen. John ordered take away and sat on the sofa with it and a book.

He knew better than to try to get Sherlock to eat or sleep when he was in one of his moods, but he made Sherlock tea anyway and left it next to his elbow. He thought about heading upstairs to bed, but then just returned to the sofa to watch television.

At one in the morning, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen and paused, looking across the room at John.

“What time is it?” he said.

“One,” John replied.

“You can’t come with me,” Sherlock said.

John lifted his head. “What?”

“You’re sitting up because you wanted to see if I went out,” Sherlock said. “I’m going out. But you can’t come with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have work to do, John, and you’ll only slow me down.”

“You’re tracking the killer, then.”

“Of course I’m—” Sherlock cut himself off and sighed. “I told you, I’m clean when I’m on a case.”

John hesitated, then asked the question he had wanted to ask for a while. “What changed, Sherlock?”

Sherlock squinted at him, looking mystified.

“When I moved in, you were clean. The worst drugs you used were nicotine patches. Now you’re…you’re addicted again. What changed?”

“Nothing changed,” Sherlock said, looking suddenly—embarrassed? John couldn’t tell. Sherlock turned away, heading down the hall to his bedroom.

John started to get up, then sat back down. He rested his chin in his hands and waited. Sherlock emerged a few minutes later with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“You don’t need to wait up,” Sherlock said, going for the coat rack and taking his coat. “I’m going in disguise this time, so I’m not in danger of being ambushed.”

John watched him in silence as Sherlock pulled on his coat. The bruise on his face was uglier in the shadows of the living room.

“Do you have your mobile?” John asked quietly.

“Do I ever not?” Sherlock replied, giving him a wry smile that could have almost been an apology, if Sherlock was one to apologise.

“I’ll have mine with me. Call if you need anything.”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. “I will,” he said.

##

John woke with rain tapping against the living room windows and Sherlock back in the kitchen. He stretched gingerly, sitting up. His neck was sore and his back was knotted from sleeping on the sofa all night.

He got up and shuffled into the kitchen. Sherlock was bent over a microscope. The state of his hair and the redness in his eyes told John that he hadn’t gone to sleep yet.

“Find anything?” John asked, taking a jug of milk from the fridge. He poured himself a glass and drank it, then wandered over to the table.

“Maybe,” Sherlock muttered into the microscope. He pulled out the slide and replaced it with another one.

John waited a moment longer, but when Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to continue, he headed upstairs to shower and get dressed.

He came back down an hour later to find Sherlock in the same position. John made the two of them some tea and then went back in the living room to turn on the television. As soon as he did, he heard Sherlock’s phone beep.

Sherlock pushed back his chair and stretched, cracking his neck. “Time to go, John.”

“Go where?” John asked, sipping at his scalding hot tea.

“There’s been another murder,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and checking it. “Go down and get us a taxi, would you?”

John looked regretfully at his tea and set it down on the side table. He grabbed his coat and went downstairs.

A taxi was just pulling up to the curb when Sherlock came out of the flat, wearing his coat and carrying a bag. It was the same bag that Sherlock had taken last night.

“What’s the bag for?” John asked, sliding into the taxi. Sherlock tossed the bag in and then got in with him.

“We’ll need it,” he said. He leaned forward. “Oxford Circus,” he said.

The taxi pulled out into traffic. “Need it for what?” John asked.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, out the rain-smeared back window of the taxi. John turned too and watched three police cars pulling up to the curb in front of their flat. Lestrade was already getting out.

“They came to pick you up,” John said in chagrin, and then everything suddenly fell into place. He turned and stared at Sherlock. “They came to _arrest_ you.”

Sherlock shot a glance at the cabbie and then turned his attention back out the window. “You too, most likely.”

“The text you got—what did it really say?”

“Just what I told you,” Sherlock said. “Just that Lestrade also said he would give me a ride, and there was no good reason why he would do that unless he didn’t want me to leave the flat before he got there.”

“What made them change their minds about you?” John asked.

“They’ll have found my coat button at the crime scene.” Sherlock touched the spot on his coat where the button was missing. John stared at it and said nothing.

The taxi turned a corner and they were suddenly out of sight. John unzipped the bag between them and pawed through it. There were a few changes of clothes inside for both him and Sherlock, along with most of Sherlock’s disguises.

For a second, John felt a rush of absolute relief. Yes, Sherlock had known that the police were going to come after him, and that was worrisome. But he had packed clothes for John as well. Despite everything, he had planned on taking John with him. John had never in his life considered that he could feel this way about the thought of fleeing the law with a potential murderer.

“What are we going to do, then?” John asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking with unexpected emotion. He raised his head. “Are you going to Mycroft?”

Sherlock snorted. “Him? No.”

“He could probably help,” John said.

“Of course he could help. But he won’t intervene until I get arrested. It’s a game of his.” Sherlock slumped down in his seat, looking sour. “He’d rather wait until I desperately need him before he comes in to help.”

“And you would never just go ahead and ask him,” John said dryly.

Sherlock gave him a blank look. John snorted, then sat back in his own seat as well and rubbed his eyes. “Okay then. Where are we going?”

Sherlock reached into the bag and pulled out a knitted wool hat. He handed it to John and shrugged out of his coat.

“First we’re going to disappear,” he said, pulling a light green parka out of the bag.

##

The taxi dropped them at Oxford Circus and they walked a bit, apparently aimlessly. The rain was weak but constant.

As they walked, Sherlock casually exchanged the clothes he was wearing for the ones in the bag. His coat had been carefully rolled and shoved in the bottom of the bag. The green parka he wore now was so alien to what Sherlock normally wore that it alone made him look like a different person, but he wasn’t content to stop there. He put a cap on his head, covering his hair, then pulled on a pair of red knit gloves.

They took shelter in the doorway of a shop and John exchanged his coat for a grey one that Sherlock had produced from his bag.

“We could have done this in the taxi,” John said, shivering as he pulled on the new coat. He watched Sherlock flex his shoulders and then slouch a little, losing a few inches in height as he adjusted his posture.

“Then the cabbie would have an accurate description to give the police,” Sherlock said. He reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of glasses.

John rolled up his own coat and shoved it into the bag. “And this isn’t suspicious?”

“A quarter mile from here, someone saw me put on this parka. A few minutes later, someone else saw me put on this hat. A third person saw me put on a pair of gloves. Someone else saw you put on that coat just now. If one person saw all that, they would be suspicious.” Sherlock pushed the glasses onto his face. “Instead, four different people just think we were cold, and have already forgotten about it.”

John finished zipping up the coat and then caught sight of Sherlock. He straightened up, startled. Sherlock blinked myopically back at him through the glasses.

It was almost as if a completely different person was standing next to him. With his hair hidden under a cap, and the coat bulking out his thin frame, and the change in his posture, Sherlock looked older and heavier and frumpier. John might pass him in the street and not give him a second glance.

“I don’t suppose you could make yourself look taller,” Sherlock said critically.

John just looked at him. Sherlock shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. This is just to get you to the hotel, anyway.”

“The hotel?” John said incredulously. “I’m coming with you.”

“I told you, you’ll only get in my way.”

“Then I’ll get in your way. But you’re not going anywhere without me.”

“John—” Sherlock looked frustrated. “I have work to do.”

“Dangerous work,” John insisted.

“Of course it’s dangerous. I’m always doing dangerous work. I managed to survive well enough before you arrived and I’ll continue to do so long after you’re gone.”

“I’m not letting you out there on your own,” John said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond and then hesitated, something obviously occurring to him. “You actually think I’m the killer, don’t you.”

John hesitated and Sherlock’s expression stilled. He turned away from John, his shoulders stiff, and stepped out into the rain again.

“Why not just call Lestrade, then?” he said. “Or are you afraid I’ll kill you before you manage it?”

“Sherlock, that’s not exactly—” John went after him. The rain was coming down hard now. He couldn’t honestly say that he was absolutely certain that Sherlock was not the killer, and he knew if he tried, Sherlock wouldn’t believe him anyway. “I want to help you,” he finished lamely.

“Help me how? By turning me in? By hiring me a therapist?” Sherlock turned back to him with bitter humour. “Or by helping me find my next victim?”

“You tell me,” John said seriously. “I trust you, Sherlock.”

“What ever made you think that would be a good idea?”

“I’ve trusted you since the beginning.” John wiped rain off his face, feeling as frustrated as Sherlock looked. “You know that.”

“I don’t—” Sherlock started, and stopped himself. He was staring at John as if he had never quite seen him fully before. Rain was dripping off the black curls of hair that were sticking out from under his hat. “You would stay here helping me even if you thought I was the killer?”

“Yes.”

“And even if I don’t stop going out at night, you would still live with me?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“And if I play the violin until three in the morning?”

“I’d ask you to stop,” John said with a small laugh. “But it’s not going to drive me away, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was silent, staring at him. “And the body parts in the fridge?”

“Have you been trying to drive me away?” The sentence started out as a joke, but by the end of it, John realised that it made sense. Sherlock had been at his worst the last few weeks, as if deliberately trying to provoke John.

“I can’t keep waiting for you to leave,” Sherlock said slowly. “It distracts me.”

“You want me to leave?” John asked, confused.

“Of course not.” Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. “But I am a difficult man to live with. Most people don’t last a week living with me. No one has ever lasted as long as you have and I can’t keep waiting.”

“I’m not leaving,” John said.

“Everyone leaves.”

John reached out and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock stopped, watching him warily.

“I am not leaving,” John repeated, and then he leaned in and kissed Sherlock.

At first it was awkward. Sherlock remained frozen where he was, slightly too tall for John. Then his mouth relaxed under John’s and he began to respond to the kiss, his tongue bumping against John’s as if it were exploring unfamiliar territory.

Finally John stopped, pulling back. He looked up at Sherlock, searching his face. Sherlock looked back down at him.

“It’s settled, then,” John said. “I’m coming with you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. “Is that what I said?” he asked.

“Yes. Where are we going?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, then back at John. “We’re going to break into a crime scene.”

##

The most recent victim had died asleep in front of the telly in his flat. The wife had only noticed something wrong when she woke up in the middle of the night and realised that her husband had never come to bed.

It was a ground floor flat, which made the job a little easier. The crime scene had not yet been released, which meant that the family was not home. There were still police officers at the scene, although they had lost the urgency that came with a fresh crime scene.

“It shouldn’t be difficult to get in tonight,” Sherlock said, watching the flat from their position across the street. “They won’t stay too late. If they do, we could get them out on some premise.” His gaze went momentarily unfocused as he considered this. “Setting fire to the flat would draw too much attention.”

“Sherlock, we’re not going to—” John rubbed at his face. “That would not be a good idea.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I like a challenge,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t imagine you have much experience breaking and entering.”

“Not until I met you,” John said.

“Though you do have an ASBO.”

“That was—” John caught Sherlock’s quirking lips. “You’re winding me up.”

Sherlock looked amused. John rolled his eyes, and then he caught Sherlock’s gaze again. For the first time in over a month, Sherlock didn’t look immediately away. John felt warmth trickle inside him, despite the cold rain that was still falling.

“We’ll wait until midnight,” Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth still tilted slightly up. “Lunch?”

##

By the time they arrived at the flat at midnight, it was dark and empty. Sherlock led John around to a window on the side of the building, and when they got it open, he gave John a boost to get inside.

The kitchen smelled like stale food. It was very dark, and only the faint light from the street outside gave them enough light to walk without bumping into things. They moved past the open door of the children’s bedroom.

The living room was blocked off, with a sheet tacked up over the doorway. Sherlock tugged the sheet aside and they slipped through. The sofa in front of the television was stained dark with the fluids that had been released by the victim upon his death. Sherlock circled the couch and turned on his torch, aiming it carefully to keep it from shedding light onto the doorway or windows.

John stayed near the doorway, listening for any sounds from the rest of the building. Sherlock moved quietly around the room, turning on his torch in quick bursts when he found something he wanted to take a closer look at. Suddenly John heard Sherlock hiss in excitement.

“Look,” Sherlock breathed. John abandoned the doorway and came to look at what Sherlock was pointing at.

There was a framed photograph of the family on the wall. The smiling faces of the children, parents, and grandparents stared out at them. The angle of the flashlight showed John the greasy imprint of a pair of lips on the glass of the photo.

“Someone kissed the picture?” John whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes were alight with excitement. “I know who our killer is.”

##

A cup of black coffee sat in a mug next to Lestrade’s elbow, long gone cold. He started to reach for it, then stopped, running his tongue over the back of his teeth and grimacing. His mouth tasted awful. He needed to switch to tea.

The fluorescent lights of the New Scotland Yard buzzed quietly, the sound all the more apparent when the place was nearly empty. Lestrade liked working late, when the place was a little quieter and he could finish his paperwork in peace.

He had a lot of paperwork tonight. Letting his main suspect walk away from a crime scene would do that.

Lestrade stifled a yawn and reached for his cup of coffee again. This time he picked it up and got to his feet.

The officer at the front desk was arguing with a constable. Lestrade barely spared them a glance as he went into the loo.

He rinsed the coffee mug in the sink and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Maybe it was time to go home. He was tired and the paperwork was interminable. The door behind him opened and the constable came in.

“Finding any clues in that mirror?” came a low, familiar voice.

Lestrade froze, then turned around. “Looks like I don’t need to.”

Sherlock stared back at him from under his hat, his eyes bright and intense. “Give me a moment to explain.”

Lestrade waited. He still hadn’t decided whether he believed Sherlock was guilty or not. He had always felt that Sherlock was more than capable of murder, but knowing something logically and being able to believe it emotionally when face to face with the man were two very different things.

“I can’t conduct an investigation when the police suspect me,” Sherlock said. “It makes things unnecessarily difficult. It will be easier if you are on my side.”

“Bring me the real killer and I’ll consider it,” Lestrade said.

“You’ll think I framed him,” Sherlock answered immediately. “I can’t prove that I didn’t do it until I have you as a witness.”

“A witness to you not killing someone?”

“A witness to someone else doing it.”

“You know who the killler is?”

“I know he’s going to kill someone tonight. He has to, the way the pattern has been going.”

“And you want me to watch?”

“I want you to trust me.”

Something like a laugh caught in Lestrade’s throat. Trust him. Lestrade had trusted Sherlock for years, and this was where it got him.

Sherlock was watching him intently, just waiting for a response. For a moment, Lestrade wondered whether Sherlock would kill him if he didn’t agree to go with him. Then he wondered if Sherlock would kill him if he did.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

##

John was waiting for the two of them across the street. He felt his stomach unclench when Sherlock and Lestrade walked side by side out of the the building. Lestrade didn’t look happy, but at least Sherlock was not in handcuffs.

Lestrade gave John a wary look as the two of them joined John. John tried to give him a reassuring smile.

Sherlock shed his jacket and handed it to John, who shoved it in the bag and gave Sherlock his green parka back.

“Why do you even have a police uniform?” Lestrade asked, watching Sherlock change.

“Some jobs require a disguise,” Sherlock said vaguely. “Do you remember a man named Jacob Smith? This would have been around ten years ago.”

“Jacob Smith….” Lestrade trailed off, frowning. “I might,” he said slowly. “He killed over eighty elderly women over six years? They called him the Nursing Home Killer?”

“He was never caught,” Sherlock said.

“You couldn’t possibly mean that he’s the one we’re looking for,” Lestrade said.

“When the police started looking into the deaths, he simply disappeared,” Sherlock said. “It was uncommon for someone so prolific to just stop, of course, but the police would have caught him if he continued. I believe he hired outside help to escape the police. He most likely left the country for a while.”

“You said this wasn’t a serial killer,” John said.

“I said these deaths didn’t seem like the work of a serial killer, and they’re not,” Sherlock said. “This killer isn’t working under some compulsion to kill. The victims fit an entirely different profile from Smith’s other victims. He’s killing them in a different way, with injections instead of drugging their food. I think that whoever helped him escape has called in his favour.”

“Moriarty again?” Lestrade said doubtfully.

“Yes, but even if you don’t believe me, think of it this way.” Sherlock spoke fast, the way he always did when he was on a case. “Smith was skilled with needles and had access to medical supplies. He was tall, and he had to be intelligent to escape detection for all that time. He killed his victims by inducing heart attacks, and the only reason he was eventually suspected was because of the abnormally high number of deaths while he was on duty. I interviewed a few people three years later to see if I could figure out where Smith had gone, and I noticed that he only targeted those patients who had families and who kept a number of mementos and photographs in their rooms. One of the family members complained when she got the photographs back from the nursing home that someone had left lip prints all over one of the photos. It was a tiny detail that no one made note of because they already knew who the killer was and it wasn’t important. Someone has done the same thing to the photographs in the flat of the most recent victim. I bet that if you were to go back to all of the other crime scenes, you would find the same.”

“Lip prints on a photograph are not exactly the kind of evidence that we need,” Lestrade said in frustration.

“He’ll kill again tonight. He has to. But he’s running low on victims that fit the profile. There can’t be that many white married men of the right age with two sons of the right age living in London. By my count there are eight more who fit the profile closely.”

“We can’t watch all of them tonight,” Lestrade said.

“No,” said Sherlock. “But if you’re with me when the next victim dies, it proves that I’m not your killer.”

John winced.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned. “I’ll call in my men and have them watch the houses.”

“It will only warn the killer off,” Sherlock said.

“We’re not going to use innocent people as bait,” Lestrade snapped. “These people have families.”

Sherlock drew in a breath and didn’t answer. John glanced over his shoulder at him. Sherlock’s eyes were wide.

“They have families,” he said. “Large families. In-laws. Grandparents. Siblings. All of them have large families.”

“Okay?” Lestrade said carefully.

“That was how Smith chose his victims in the nursing home. The ones with families. He loved watching the families grieve. Moriarty—” Sherlock caught Lestrade’s look, “—or _someone_ chose the victim profile that Smith needs to follow, but Smith is adding his own touch to make sure he enjoys it. He’s been killing the ones with the largest extended families.”

“That could narrow it down,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock took out his mobile and thumbed through it for a moment. “It narrows it down to two,” he said. “Let’s go.”

##

They had the taxi let them off a street away from the flat of one of the potential victims. Lestrade paid the driver and they got out.

“I’m calling in reinforcements,” Lestrade said, taking out his mobile.

“We can’t scare him off,” Sherlock said sharply.

“They know how to do their jobs!” Lestrade answered. “And we can’t let people die if we know who the killer is going to target next.”

“Fine,” Sherlock bit out. “We’ll just hope we can apprehend the killer before they get here.” He turned away from them and scanned the street. “It’s late, so the family is probably already in bed. Smith will be making his move now.”

They hurried down the street. Lestrade made his phone call, talking quietly, while Sherlock surged on ahead in frustration. John kept up with Sherlock, his eyes locked on the building where they were headed.

“We’re too late,” Sherlock hissed. “He’s already here.”

There was a window open on the ground floor flat. Sherlock broke into a run. “John, knock on the door. We’ll try to scare him out and catch him while he runs.”

John nodded and sprinted for the front door, hearing Lestrade running behind them. Sherlock veered off towards the open window. John reached the front of the building, leaping up the steps, and banged his hand on the door.

“Answer the door!” he shouted. “It’s an emergency!”

Inside the flat, a light turned on. John banged on the door harder. “Quickly!” he shouted.

Something crashed inside the flat, and then John heard a scuffle at the side of the building. John ran down the steps again, hurrying around the side of the building.

Sherlock was struggling to subdue a tall man. John raced at them. The man broke free of Sherlock’s grip and started to run. John went after him but Lestrade was closer, dropping his mobile and lunging at the man. The man punched Lestrade in the face and Lestrade went down.

There was a loud crack, echoing throughout the neighbourhood. The man, two steps from Lestrade, tripped and dropped to his knees. John reached him as the man collapsed to the ground. He grabbed the man’s shoulder, and that’s when he saw the blood.

Sherlock was running across the street. John let go of the killer’s shoulder, confused. Shot. The man had been shot. And Sherlock was running after the shooter.

John felt hastily for a pulse in the killer’s throat, but there was none. There wasn’t much left of the man’s face at all. Lestrade was on his hands and knees, probing gingerly at his face with one hand. The front door of the potential victim’s flat was open and a man was staring out at them in confusion. In the distance, John heard sirens.

He ran after Sherlock.

##

He met up with Sherlock in someone’s back garden. Sherlock was just returning from the direction he’d run, out of breath and bad tempered.

“The sniper got away,” Sherlock said by way of greeting. “I was so close.”

“It was Moriarty, then?” John asked quietly.

“Now you believe me.” Sherlock sounded faintly amused. It was too dark to see much, but John thought he could see Sherlock smile.

“Smith is dead,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. John turned to start back towards the flat when Sherlock caught his shoulder.

“I’m not very good at this,” he said. All trace of amusement was gone from his voice.

“Good at…” John started, then trailed off. “Oh.”

“Relationships are short-lived when you’re as…” Sherlock hesitated, “…difficult as I am. They don’t last.”

“Believe me, I know how difficult you can be,” John said.

“I imagine I could still surprise you,” Sherlock said dryly.

John laughed, and then Sherlock kissed him. John closed his eyes and kissed back, leaning forward, feeling Sherlock’s warmth and solid strength against his chest. He grinned against Sherlock’s mouth and felt Sherlock grin back.

“Then surprise me,” John whispered.


End file.
